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Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Okay, so I'm free from Windows XP at last and my former XP box is now running Ubuntu Studio. Thing is, I've been away from Linux long enough that I have to retrace my steps and climb my way back up the learning curve. Because at this point in time I'm faced with urgent things like a fast approaching NaNoWriMo and getting Spanner Book 1 edited for publication, I'll be doing things more slowly this time and focusing on basic commands and the desktop first.

The basic commands: stuff like cp, mv, rm, and wc. For those more familiar with Windows and MS-DOS, cp corresponds to copy, rm to del, and mv to both move and ren or rename. wc counts the number of words in text files. Actually, you can use all these commands in Windows itself if you install the GNU CoreUtils package; this may have an earlier version of the CoreUtils than the one that comes standard with Linux, but the commands work just the same. GnuWin32 has a lot of Windows versions of Linux packages that you can install and use; they may not be updated anymore, but they can still be useful. I installed most of these packages in XP and used them a lot, though the last couple of years not as much as I once did.

Also, there's the package managers standard in Linux distributions. Ubuntu is based on Debian (and Linux Mint, which I installed on a partition on my new computer, is based in turn on Ubuntu), so it uses Debian's package manager, APT. The advantage of package managers is that they make it easier to keep your software updated. I missed that. I also missed the command line tools like apt-get. When the XPocalypse finally gave me the chance, I plunged back in.

The desktop: naturally, it's got differences from Windows. For one thing, there's several you can choose from. I was a huge fan of KDE back when I had Kubuntu on my old and now defunct Gateway. Ubuntu Studio comes with XFCE; the version of Linux Mint I chose for the cute little 64-bit dual-core unit in my home theatre system uses the Cinnamon desktop that is just about as processor-intensive as the Unity desktop that comes with standard Ubuntu, or for that matter the heavy-duty desktops in Windows since Vista. In both my Linux distributions I had to assemble a few desktop components, especially some control panels that were missing. But learning the ins and outs of my chosen Linux desktops is the easy part.

The hard part is, as you'd expect, the deeper aspects of the command line, and the heavy-duty text editors I prefer but haven't been using lately, Vim and Emacs. For this, I'll have to explore deep into the jungles of documentation that surround them. NaNoWriMo is just around the corner, though, so I'll have to take my time with that.

One new thing I'll have to learn is how to use the advanced audio system called JACK (recursive acronym: JACK Audio Connection Kit). I know nothing about it. I need to find documentation and tutorials for it. I want to at least get competent in using it before FAWM, which is only 3½ months away.

Anyway, I'm happy I've reunited with Linux again. I even have Wine to run Windows programs again, and I've even installed a few games (Minesweeper, that pinball game, and Hover from the Windows 95 CD). I'm not starting from scratch, actually. Still, there's a lot of stuff I have to learn before Linux becomes as intuitive to me as Windows.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Since my last post, I've hardly blogged, tweeted, or otherwise been very publicly active on the Net at all. Mostly I've been editing my book and trying to wrestle it into readable form even as it mutated into two different shapes. But I've still been busy, for the last few months in fact, replacing the late lamented Windows XP with Ubuntu Studio Linux on my old P4 box and gradually setting up Windows 7 and Linux Mint on the cute little Core Duo unit in the living room. This is the sequel and update.

Part of the struggle involved a much delayed game of musical hard drives. The new computer came with only an 80GB hard drive, which didn't give me much room considering how much stuff I had on two hard drives on the old box, so I had it upgraded to the current industry standard of 1TB and transferred all my music, videos, and games to it. Then I cloned my 40GB C drive on the P4 box to the 250GB drive, expanded the partition on that to the full drive (except for %GB of Linux swap), transferred much of my old data back to it, replaced the 40GB drive with the 80GB one from the new computer, and installed Ubuntu Studio on that. To do this, I realized I had to buy a USB hard drive enclosure to do the clones and transfers I couldn't do over the network. After that, there was the task of reinstalling programs that is still ongoing.

The important thing is that I no longer have to deal with the dying XP's increasing lack of security. Win7 is much more secure (and still regularly updated), and Linux is more secure still (though I there still is the learning curve). Now if only the rumors of a Windows 10 upgrade being free to Win7 users were true — though I'm not holding my breath...

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

If you haven't forgotten me already (that happens), you may have noticed I haven't been online much since the middle of last month. You see, my old computer runs Windows XP. I got a new one running Windows 7 for the living-room home theatre system. It's a cute little thing with a dual-core 64-bit processor that runs XBMC Media Center like a dream, making it my set-top box of choice (I'll still play Blu-Ray discs on the Blu-Ray player, of course). It took me a few weeks to acquire the computer, install all the software I require, and get all the settings just right. That, of course, cut my NaPoWriMo short.

There was a big, big reason for all this: the XPocalypse!

You see, Microsoft ended all support for XP last month. Today was the first Patch Tuesday on which XP didn't get patched. Already the black-hat hackers are starting to exploit the vulnerabilities that will never again get patched. Today is XP's true death day. By getting my new Win7 machine, I have avoided getting caught up in the XPocalypse. Besides, I wanted Win7 anyway; it's just that a Pentium 4 cam't run it right.

And so I've disconnected my old P4 box from the Internet entirely while it still has XP installed. My next priority: to get a network drive I can move my music and videos to. Next step after that: install Ubuntu Studio to what is currently the D drive; I have to move my music, videos, and games because I'll need to reformat that drive to install Linux, which uses a completely different filesystem (EXT4 instead of Windows' NTFS). Since there's Windows programs I want to run under Linux, I'll want to install the Wine compatibility layer, then install whatever compatible Windows updates no longer available for XP. And then I'll be free of Windows XP's corpse forever!

Meanwhile, the former office terminal in my entertainment center is now my Win7 + XBMC "set-top box". In fact, I'm writing this entry on that machine as I speak...

marshmallowy sugary inedible yellow
weapons of squishy warfare candy destruction
brand name: peeps
raging teenagers overdosed on sugar
stock up on ammo half-off post-easter
load up their weapons to go to war
peepfighters
i have a machine gun made to fire peeps
he’s got a slingshot she shoots her potato gun
peeps fly around hit everyone in range
until they’re gone

in the vacuum of space peeps bloat with trapped air
back in the airlock they collapse flatter than roadkill
yum

The snake of cosmic darkness swallows the invincible sun
Three days three nights the sun languishes eclipsed under the earth
On the third day he rises from the dead to shine again
The goddess of the dawn
Her ancient name: Easter
Rolls away the stone
To bid him rise again

By the hand she raises him from the loamy tomb
He shakes the black earth off his flaming hair
On the holy day of the dawn
Night shrinks away, day grows long
She manifests herself by northern lights in the night sky
Invoked by another of her ancient holy names: Aurora
Daring the bright sun to outshine her nocturnal glory
On this her holiest day
When the night and the day are equal

oh no my windows just got discontinued
i’ll have to pay through the nose for an update
they’ll have to come to my house install the new ones
take out the old ones before they get hacked

damn you microsoft why do you always have to
make my windows obsolete just when i get used to them
don't worry says customer service you’ll see better
ha i reply just wait till the next big rainstorm hits

[Note: I wrote this short story in the midst of writing poems for NaPoWriMo. Nothing annoys me more than the willful obscurity of elitist “artistes” such as the academic poet. This kind of artist really exists only to make culture-free billionaires feel "in", precisely because their art is unintelligible to us puny humans. Satire accordingly follows below.]

They are gathered here in the Temple of Art, the assembled Lords of Capital, to listen to the Bardic Elite read their works. None here care a thing for the pleasures of body, heart, mind, or soul. Modern Art exists for the ego alone. What they seek is Prestige.

For the professors, Prestige means Tenure, sponsored by the new race of aristocratic patrons whose representatives wait breathlessly for them to speak. For the executives, Prestige means Reputation among their kind, raising them in their own minds at least to the level of the merchant princes who made the Renaissance. A common conviction unites them: that Modern Art shall raise Artist and Patron alike above the people.

The first poet strides up to the podium. The projector lights up the wall behind him; the exalted audience must see what they are hearing to make sure what they hear is True Art not plebeian doggerel. Not verse but abstract words abstractly arranged like a bomb-blasted PowerPoint presentation (haven’t heard of Paul Blackburn? you philistine) assures the executive illuminati before him. They disagree as to whether the style he reads his poem is like a rabid gorilla or a psychotic robot. They sigh in contentment that, like Capitalism itself, Modern Art continues to dissolve everything solid into air (haven’t heard of Irving Fisher? you peasant). He finishes. They applaud. He smugly smiles: among the oligarchic audience, he shall find his Patron.

No, from these poets you won’t hear the feigned concern for the oppressed women and colored people all too common in the academic presses. To these men it reeks of Communism: let them spew their rot among the rabble. Here the true purpose of Modern Art is known: to comfort the comfortable and afflict the afflicted. The Bardic Elite speak only of Higher Things, that which cannot be spoken by human tongues, that which the Lords of Capital are taught by their gurus and the Ascended Masters they channel. To them the Great Chain of Being still stands unbroken; to them hierarchy is still the abstract essence of Nature.

Poet after poet speaks the unspeakable, deconstructed into glossolalia, exciting executive egos and raising them into gods. The air here in the Temple of Art is hushed like the atmosphere of a sacred temple before the holy golden image of the god. The god hovering over this ritual has no image, though painted and sculpted icons of the ineffable surround them; yet his blood runs freely in checkbooks, credit cards, and bank accounts: he is the god of this world, and the Lords of Capital are his chosen race, beyond good and evil (haven’t heard of Friedrich Nietzsche? you plebeian).

The ritual ends. The contracts are signed. The Bards find their Patrons; the Patrons find their Bards: all united by the smug sense of occult conspiracy against the unenlightened masses. The poets are pleased; the executives are pleased; the god they serve is pleased: they shall be rewarded with Profit and Prestige.

Meanwhile, many social layers below, heedless of the dance of egos among elites in the exclusivist Temple of Art, people with two and three jobs create their art, not to social-climb, but because they must.

but they must choose to walk it
for some are blinded by shining ideals
and others by midnight-black despair
confusion clouds their eyes and makes them think
that what is not real is real
and what is real is not real:

clarity reveals the path, and the cosmic currents

that flow through you and me and all beings and all reality,

and the true nature of reality unclouded by faulty vision

and by the three afflictions, addiction repulsion confusion,

and by the lesser self that divides self from self and self from others.

Siddhārtha meditated under a pipal tree
when Māra spied him and panicked:
first he unleashed all the terrors of infinite hells:
failing that, he tried to seduce the prince
with carnal pleasures and illusory ideals:

[Note: Written 4/4/2014. A possible replacement Interlude 2 for Chaos Angel Spanner, featuring several major Spanner characters, motifs, and themes.]

Poe’s Law
(as in Edgar Allan’s preacher cousin):
The Church must put on the World’s culture
like unto a garment:
then it can take over.

Once upon a time, in a city by the sea,

before it caught the sheen and glitter of celebrity,

a dervish-capped man began a church amidst apostasy,

and gathered up his flock, and lo! it grew ambitiously,

and as his congregation grew, his power grew by degrees,

until the Lord commanded: bring this Babylon to its knees!

The city was called Seattle,
the man was Pastor Scofield,
Byron Herbert Scofield,
a man of same mind as Chuck Norris:
he looked like a football star
with a top hat upon his head
but wanted to be a Rock Star
and preaching the Lord was his way:
but the ring of ultimate power
lay on the road of Kurt Cobain.

Celebrity secret to fame and fortune
Crucify yourself
Suicide will make you immortal
Crucify yourself

Willa Richter-Thomas,
Rocker and psychologist,
came up with a theory
and put it into doggerel:

This preacher steals our Rock ’N’ Roll
and uses it to rule,
then strips it of its integrity
and calls it RadiCool.

He brought his intensities into ten more cities and nationwide,

parlaying his charisma into bigger more hysterical flocks and pastoral stardom;

but to him they were just a power base: higher ambitions fuelled his burning ego;

television’s siren song called out his name, drew him into its studio

where with his old friend Bram Savage he red- and pinkbaited uppity womankind

and their old enemy Willa, and built mighty fortresses in the sky

manned with manly crusaders against democracy, the devil’s daughter

and rapist of virgin manliness: communism was dead, they said,

we the people was passé and uncool: only fascism had edge and cool,

government by superhero, manly celebrity like Pastor Byron, the Lord’s linebacker.

He got his biggest ratings.
He was a fast rising star.
Next step to power: Fox News.
The devil looked up with a smirk.

And Willa went on with her theory
in defiance of his denial:

Patriarchs so desperate
to capture all the youth
Mix their jargon in dead slang
and brand it RadiCool.

Speculation abounds as to the time he sold his soul,

Sacrificing integrity for his ambitious goal:

Taking command of city towers and hostile city streets,

Liberal wimpy millions begging sobbing at his feet:

seize his dominion
take his revenge

Conservative celebrity compounded on itself and turned his head

He concocted the most audacious hostile takeover since the March on Rome

Bloodless castrated unmen and mere women populated the Babylon he sought to rule

They would fall and be conquered by the magic manly essence of God’s linebacker

By God’s sign he would conquer
Lo! this Babylon would fall

But ambition made him overconfident, unearned pride made him ripe for a fall

The city people feared he’d make them all illegal aliens in their own city

They won’t let you escape their Word
at work or play or school;
They’ll rape your mind and kill your soul
à mode de RadiCool.

In the depths of his darkest despair
he sat in his executive chair
and telephoned Doctor Julian Blair
whose mad science controlled the mind
with a hubris that would make him blind
for he would turn Benedict Arnold
and they would make his name taboo
and they would call him Doctor X
and the mad doctor gave him this advice:

A Western movie cowboy
said these words so wise:
Before you live forever,
first you’ve got to die.

The martyr way to absolute power
Crucify yourself
You gotta die to become immortal
Crucify yourself

He sentenced himself to death,
he nailed himself to the cross,
he punctured himself in the side
with spear held in his own hands
and applied the final fatal sponge
and drank death deep to the bitter end:

his grief-maddened followers
believed he would rise bodily

but he appeared unto them
in mass hallucination:
they were now his body,
their faith his resurrection,
their life his transmutation:
like evil Osama bin Laden,
he was now a god.

The Conservative Revolution
went to its full conclusion
a black man vanished from the earth
again dread giants walked the earth:
the Spirit of Rock ’N’ Roll was now his:
he rocked the Word of Command:
Patriot Metal!

And all the Rockers sang along
as Willa summoned her Charmer niece:

We the people must take back
our culture from his rule,
even if our freedom requires
the sacrifice of the Cool.

Poe’s Law
(as in Nathan from Usenet):
The more fanatically you believe,
the less your belief can be distinguished
from parody.

She had slain the slender man
She could kill the mind of faith
A girl with skin of cinnamon
And outlaw style and hardened mind
And superpower to cloud the mind
And dark charisma rousing lust
too sexy for her age
and she had many names
Shira Thomas she said she was
But he kept calling her Rebel Styles
the evil child seductress
who slew the men of faith
his suicide assault was fuelled
by dread and holy hate
She stole from him the power of Rock
She terrified away his flock
He faced his nemesis alone
Inside a body not his own
abandoned by God:
She put an end to his Word of Command
his top hat fell
his mind flickered out
his name was forgot
the devil got his man
and that was the end.

They organize their cults into crusader armies screaming to wreak jihad

Their will: to destroy the mind of man, initiate him back into the earth

Their word: seek and destroy—

By terror and power they overdo
But we are many and they are few

The gods are bodied in flesh and steel
The people pull together for survival
The final battle is on!

Believe in a god and he will assimilate
Fight him alone and he will annihilate
Withdraw your sanction, end his game
Erase the memory of his name
The system is not for human use
The system was made for gods by gods

“Why is the river of heaven going dry?”

“It can't be! Our blood is the real, matter but a flickering shadow.”

“Look down, you fools! The black-headed ones have ceased to believe!”

The masses below vow to produce for their need not the profits of gods

The gods enraged send angels and demons of vengeance to ravage the earth

The word of chaos is implanted into the heavenly horde, they crash inert

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

He was a legend to himself, obscure to everyone else,
all ambition, no talent, and twenty-seven.
Membership in the Twenty-Seven Club was still open.
Nobody cared about him. He'd show them all.

You saw him on stage. You booed him from the audience.
There he was, guitar and voice out of tune,
imaginary target on his face as you cocked back your arm
and let loose the rotten tomato that hovered
and arced a pretty parabola on its way to his face.
Impact: face reddened by tomato and rage,
he stage-dived into the seething audience
and hit only floor. It was three months
before they let him out of the hospital.

Now he was twenty-seven. Club membership was open.
High on dexedrine and oxycodone,
more alcohol than blood in his veins,
he slipped behind the wheel to speed like a freak
to Dead Man's Curve with bomb in his trunk
and camera behind to watch him die live on YouTube.
He slammed foot to pedal, the car lurched and jerked,
he sped down the highway wobbling and weaving,
an army of cops in hot pursuit of a mad suicide
to the place of a million car crashes to crash and burn.
Impact: the exploding car sent shrapnel into cop
and bystander, made a pretty sight on live video.
Ten million viewers were amused. What a way to go.

Only three people came to his funeral,
mother and sister and widow catfighting over
the insurance policy they took out on him
and cashed in knowing how he wanted to go.
He was lowered in the ground under a generic tombstone.
A priest said pretty words that did not apply,
heaven and eternal life and the resurrection and all that,
denying that everything left of him was
the formaldehyded and formally dressed corpse
destined to decay into dirt and fade from memory.
Impact: he achieved his Twenty-Seven Club ambition but
everybody knew him as a short story far back in the paper,
yesterday's birdcage liner, recycled tomorrow.
Membership in the Rock Hall of Fame forever closed,
he ended as he began, a footnote to a footnote,
and nobody cared.

Monday, March 31, 2014

Two years ago, NaNoWriMo discontinued their April scriptwriting spinoff Script Frenzy and replaced it with an April CampNaNo. As I'm not writing another new novel until next NaNo in November or I finish editing Chaos Angel Spanner book 1, whichever comes first, I've decided to do the next best thing until it became the best thing: NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month. Basically, you write a poem a day for 30 days, or just 30 poems this month. Considering my typical FAWM song output (28 songs this year, 14 of them in just the last two days), that should be easy. And my NaPoWriMo will be happening right here in this blog! Brace yourselves!

Wednesday, February 5, 2014

Actually, I should have posted this on January 31. Well, it's FAWM again, and I'm going to write at least another 14 songs. Unlike the last 2 FAWMs, I'm going to record as many as I can, like I did during my first 2 (2009 and 2010), when I wasn't possessed by a monomania for editing three drafts of Chaos Angel Spanner nonstop. And unlike the past 2 years, I didn't wait until the last day or two to start posting songs. So far I have the lyrics posted for:

Whenever I get a full recording posted, I'll post it here on the main blog. I'm also seriously thinking of signing up for Soundcloud so my demos will be accessible to all, especially now that its embedded music player now works with the FAWM site.

So I've started at last. For the next month, or at least until NaNoEdMo comes around in March, I'll be agonizing over songs instead of Spanner rewrites...

Thursday, January 2, 2014

I didn't post here most of last year, not even songs for FAWM (because I never recorded any). Reason is, I spent most of my time on the epic final edit of Spanner. And this is supposed to be my main blog.

2014 will be different. Naturally, I have my resolutions. The obvious ones:

Finish the final edit of Spanner Book 1.

Practice my singing and my instruments for FAWM, not just this year's but next year's too.

Resume regular posting to what's supposed to be my main blog, starting now.

2013 was a tough year: my mother's long recovery from surgery, the death of a cousin who was almost a brother to me when we were kids, the birth of my nephew and my brother's near-withdrawal from the family, my unhealthy obsession with a certain epic edit that even nearly ruined my health and prevented my 8th consecutive NaNo win (which I pulled off despite myself). 2014, on the other hand, will be the year I become a published professional author at last. I'll get back to posting about novels, comics, TV series, and the like as well. And of course I'll post drawings.

I've had my drink to the new year. The next step is to plunge into it. Here goes...

About Me

Novelist, blogger, cartoonist (mangaka in training), rocker (singer, guitarist, and keyboardist also in training), tech geek, political junkie, public intellectual, professional slacker, and hacker of memes.

My first novel, Chaos Angel Spanner (originally planned as a manga in 1992), is currently undergoing its fifth and final revision for publication later this year. (WARNING: contains NSFW material, political incorrectness, and live mind viruses, so read at your own risk!)